


Terror Rarepair Week Collection

by Phoebus



Series: Rarepair Week [1]
Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Dreams, Epistolary, Ficlet Collection, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, terror rarepair week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-11
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2021-01-04 17:55:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21201725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phoebus/pseuds/Phoebus
Summary: Missing Moments Monday - Irving/MalcolmTender Tuesday - Heather/TozerWedding Wednesday - Crozier/BlankyThirstday - Hickey/Irving, Hickey/Irving/Gibson (added as part 2 to keep the T rating)Frightday - Little/IrvingSadderday - Collins/Orren, (Bridgens/Peglar)Sunday Funday - Little/Irving/Hodgson





	1. Irving/Malcolm

_Excerpts from the letters of Lieut. John Irving, HMS Terror, to William Elphinstone Malcolm (1846-1848, private collection)._

MY DEAR MALCOLM,—  
[..] I wonder whether my decision to return to the naval service was the right one. I know I have written to you about the subject extensively before, but I fear more than ever that I have made a mistake. I told you once that I could hardly do worse than remain in the navy—it appears that returning to it may be a choice even poorer. [..] We are still stuck on Beechey Island, and three of our men have passed. Their funerals were decent—as much as they can be, here in the perpetual ice, and Sir John read an appropriate sermon. [..] Seeing the graves out there in the snowy desert, together, yet so far removed from everything human—it frightens me to think of the months to come. I can only pray the Lord returns me to Scotland, so that I may see you once more.  
—Your very affectionate friend,  
JOHN IRVING.

MY DEAR MALCOLM,—  
[..] I often think of our time together on the Belvidera. It now seems so long ago, and we merely young boys. [..]  
—Your very affectionate friend,  
JOHN IRVING.

MY DEAR MALCOLM,—  
[..] The days here are dreary, and so are the nights. Every hour seems to last twice as long as it would back home. Though the environment is beautiful and makes me praise the richness of the Lord’s creation, it is lacking in variety, and the endless snow and ice have begun to blind me to anything outside the ship. [..] Here, it is filled with men and stale air. My dear Malcolm, the vices that one carries with him on land seem multiplied on sea, whether by close quarters, faithlessness, or boredom, I do not know. All I can do is remind them that this too is God’s realm, and keep up my own Christian pursuits to stave off any unwelcome urges. [..]  
—Your very affectionate friend,  
JOHN IRVING.

MY DEAR MALCOLM,—  
Sir John has passed. He was a good Christian, and a good man. [..] I dare not write too much about the beast. You know I am not folly to superstition, yet the creature—some kind of Polar bear—frightens me to death. We have lost too many good men already. [..] I trust Captain Crozier’s experience and his instincts, but the next few months will be hard on all of us. [..]  
—Your very affectionate friend,  
JOHN IRVING.

  
MY DEAR MALCOLM,—  
[..] I am respected by my subordinates and welcome amongst my fellow Lieutenants, and I believe I enjoy Captain Crozier’s trust, but I am not liked. You have served with me and know that I don’t easily build close relationships with my fellow men—you being the exception to the rule. Although I will admit that this is mostly to your credit, as you were so persistent in getting to know this stranger. I am grateful that you did. The thought of you welcoming me home after this horrid voyage warms me, and I am looking forward to your questions about the Arctic—perhaps to be answered on a leisurely Sunday stroll along the Princes Street Gardens. I long to embrace you and walk arm in arm like we did before. [..]  
—Your very affectionate friend,  
JOHN IRVING.

MY DEAR MALCOLM,—  
We are leaving the ships tomorrow to walk back to civilisation. This might be the last opportunity I have to write to you in a long while. I pray every night to see you again. _[illegible]_. Your image will give me the strength I need to find my way home. I will meet you in Edinburgh.  
—Forever your very affectionate friend,  
JOHN IRVING.


	2. Heather/Tozer

“..and then he tripped over his own bucket, it was sloshing everywhere! Poor bastard,”  
Solomon laughed, wiping a tear from his crinkled eyes. 

He looked down at his friend, expecting a reaction for a moment.   
Of course, Billy made no sound.

“Anyway. You should have seen it, you’d have enjoyed seeing the poor fella trying to stay upright.” 

Billy answered him with silence, the lamplight bathing him in an eerie glow, like a painting of a sleeping angel.

Tozer wasn’t a pious man, but he went to church when he had to and knew the gist of the bible.   
He wondered what this was supposed to be, this fugue state.   
A blessing?   
Was it a miracle, Billy not dying when others died seemingly all the time now? 

It sure didn’t feel like one.

He chastised himself for the thought.   
Yes, the situation was less than ideal, but Heather was alive, he was still with them.   
And if it was up to Solomon, he’d care for him until he woke up again. 

He’d wake up, perhaps just before they discovered the Passage.   
That would be just like Heather, sleeping through the entire voyage. 

Solomon smiled at the image, Billy bleary eyed and weak from his forced bedrest, asking why everyone was celebrating.   
Heather would reach for his hand and Solomon would pull him up, hauling him to the deck and grinning the entire way.   
“We’ve made it, old boy! We’ve reached the Passage,” Solomon would cry, and Billy would be stunned, unsure whether to cheer or be upset that he had missed the adventure.

Solomon picked up his hand.   
The fingernails were too long, the digits too cold.   
He let his thumb caress Billy’s cracked knuckles for a moment, then got up to retrieve the tools he needed to care for his nails.


	3. Crozier/Blanky

Francis poured Thomas another two fingers of whiskey before filling up his own glass, laughing at Thomas’ poor imitation of the admiral. 

“No, no, he really did sound like that!” Thomas cracked up, laughing as well now, attempting a few more words in a terribly nasal voice but unable to get out a full sentence between hearty wheezes.

Francis smiled fondly, taking a slow sip. 

At least Thomas Blanky was here with him, in this god-forgotten white nowhere, here for the great tragedy of his life.  
At least he had his friend, who didn’t care about his pedigree or his properties or whatever else everyone was obsessed with. 

Thomas didn’t always agree with him, he didn’t even always like him.  
But he could trust Thomas, with his life.  
That much had become clear on the Parry expedition. 

He took another swig. 

“Remember when Ross forced us to do that god-awful play? What was it, some modern nonsense?”

Thomas looked delighted. 

“Speak for yourself, old man, he didn’t have to force me! I’m an actor, me, a regular Charles Mathews.”

Francis scoffed, “you were more wooden than this table!"

"Nonsense. True talent is always unrecognised. But I have to admit, no one could appreciate the finer nuances of my art with you on the stage in that skirt, stole the show from me, you did."

Francis groaned, rubbing his tired eyes with his fingers. 

"I think I remember quite clearly you promising me you'd never bring that up again."

Thomas just smirked, as if to say, and what of it? 

"I'll have you know, men came up to me months later to congratulate me on the engagement scene. And don't believe that's to your credit, all you did was, how did Ross put it again?" 

Francis huffed out a breath.  
He really didn't want to dredge this up, but Thomas was looking at him expectantly, a glint in his warm eyes. 

"Look handsome and bashful, the direction said."

Blanky slapped his knee, overcome with enjoyment from either the memory of Francis grudgingly playing a young maiden being proposed to or from Francis’ embarrassment at having to relive the evening now. 

“And a good wife you would have made me. It’s a shame we never got our wedding night.”

Francis groaned, the whisky putting a deep flush on his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crozier, Blanky and Ross were all on Parry’s 1827 North Pole expedition where they tried to use reindeer.


	4. Little/Irving

The first time John Irving came to him, Edward greeted him with open arms. 

He looked like he had when they boarded the ship all those months ago, all carefully parted hair and clean uniform, buttons gleaming. 

In the waking world, they had lost him to cruelty and betrayal a few weeks prior, but here in his dream, John was smiling the reserved little smile that only came out when he was amused by something. 

In a blink, Edward slung his arms around him, so relieved he could sob. 

They didn’t say anything to each other, there was no need to. They both knew what was left unsaid but not unfelt. 

Around them, the cruel rocks turned to lush fields, green sprouting between the cracks until the ground beneath them was soft with moss and fresh, dewy grass. 

Edward had missed the warm colour terribly, everything in the camp being varying dull shades of despair. 

Not wanting to let go of John in case he disappeared again, Edward bent down, one hand clinging to John’s heavy uniform coat, the material just the right texture under his fingers. 

He plucked a bright yellow dandelion, its stem breaking off with a satisfying snap, and tucked it behind John’s ear. 

He looked like a young country gentleman like this, overlooking his fields, the sun shining from behind his head. 

John just smiled at him, and the flower rapidly went through its life-cycle before Edward’s eyes, yellow petals closing in on themselves, protected by a shield of green, then opening again to reveal a delightful puff of wispy white seeds. 

John reached up to take it off and presented the dandelion to Edward, looking at him expectantly. 

Edward blew on it, and as the white fans flew away gently, so did John leave with them, and Edward woke up feeling content for the first time in weeks.

* * *

John Irving became a regular feature in Edward’s dreams. 

When he closed his eyes, John was there, sometimes in his dress uniform, sometimes as Edward had never seen him before but imagined him to look like in civilian life, sometimes just in his nightclothes, more ghostly than usual, the thin white cloth fluttering in a breeze coming from nowhere in particular. 

He never said anything, but his face and hands were as expressive as ever, a secret language Edward had learned to decode over their months spent together. 

Sometimes John cried, sometimes Edward did, but never for long. 

Their moments here were too precious to be spent spilling tears, not when they could look at each other instead. 

When they met like this, Edward tried not to think about what had happened to John.

Whenever he did, John would inevitably flicker out of existence, regretful look in his eyes, and Edward would wake up, desperate to go to sleep again, to try another time. 

Sometimes it was hard not to think about it, when John appeared to him with suspicious red spots on his shirt, a knife stuck in his chest or, one time, a missing scalp. 

Even then, he had been radiant.

In the back of his mind, the niggling part he tried to ignore by focussing on his steps during the day, marching ever forward one by one, Edward knew that John didn’t just come to him to bring some much needed comfort. 

That he wanted something from him. 

* * *

As the weeks went by, John started looking nervous, or maybe impatient, on edge, his smile taking on a more strained nature. 

When they lay down on the grass, John pulled on his hand. 

When they kissed, John pressed closer. 

He would put his forehead against Edward’s and focus on him, his eyes blurring together.

“What is it, John?” Edward wanted to say, and “anything you want.”

Edward would invariably wake up feeling as if he had forgotten something on the road behind him, but knowing that there was no way to turn back. 

He spent his nights dreaming and his days walking, awaiting the night, when he could see John again, hold his face between his hands, so solid, so real. 

He was getting weaker now, every morning a bigger mountain he had to overcome. 

Sleep was hard for him to shake off, and he was beginning to lose track of which hours he spent awake and when he was carried off by dreams.

* * *

John was crying, his fingers shaking were Edward held them between his own. 

He was dressed in his carnivale costume, the one he put together himself, halo askew on his head and wings moving gently, real muscles and tendons twitching beneath heavenly golden feathers. 

Edward tried to console him by holding his face in his hands and wiping his tears away with his thumbs, then by holding him close, rocking him, but John would not stop. 

He was staring at Edward, blood-shot eyes begging him to do something he could not decipher. 

“Please,” Edward pleaded, “what is it? How can I help you?” 

John did not speak, but he let out a high, piercing wail that followed Edward into the waking world.

* * *

Edward was dying. 

His mind was barely able to supply him with more than a flicker of a thought at a time, flitting from one thing to another with no way for him to control it, his memories no more than the tales of a stranger, half-forgotten. 

John was with him, so he might be dreaming, or maybe he was so far away gone now that the difference didn’t matter any longer. 

He tried to open his mouth but didn’t remember how to, or maybe he couldn’t move anymore. 

His skin felt heavy on his bones, yet removed from himself, like the pain was happening to someone else entirely. 

John was coming closer, nearly translucent in the blinding sunlight. 

He kissed Edward, or maybe he hugged him. 

All Edward could tell was that there was the sensation of warmth, then nothing again. 

John looked at him, and his image was beginning to dissolve before Edwards eyes, his edges sliding away like the walls of a drunkard’s room, a rainbow of colours playing around the corners of his vision. 

Edward could hear John’s voice, a memory, maybe. 

_“Come with me,”_ it said. _“Come with me, please.”_


	5. Collins/Orren

Henry didn't know a lot about Bridgens, but over the course of their voyage, he had come to respect the man's quiet confidence.  
There was something regal about him; he reminded Henry of the images that would come up in his head when the preacher at his old parish had told stories of Solomon or Noah. 

This Sunday morning, Sir John was holding a compulsory sermon, nearly all of Terror and Erebus in attendance to witness him speak the Good Word.  
It was time for the annual harvest festival at home, but here in the endless ice, his talk of God's grace, of bountiful fruit and the turn of the seasons, rang hollow. 

“Put ye in the sickle, for the harvest is ripe: come, get you down; for the press is full, the fats overflow; for their wickedness is great,” Sir John intoned with his booming voice, ringing across the white planes. 

Against this backdrop the crew stood out starkly as a dark mass, like a stain on impeccably clean linen. 

The men had split up and mingled between the two crews, friends posted on different ships meeting up and whispering to each other whenever Sir John would pay them no mind.

Henry could spot Bridgens standing next to Peglar from HMS Terror, a trim man with the watchful eyes of a hare.  
He’d never had the chance to speak with Peglar, but if word around the ship were to be believed, he was well-liked amongst the men, even as he regularly beat them all at cards.

Something about them arrested Henry’s attention, and he did not avert his gaze as Sir John went on about the time of reaping.  
Maybe it was the way they stood, of unequal height and yet both taking up the same amount of space, pressed closely together.  
Or maybe it was the way that they smiled at each other when the other wasn’t looking, and even more when he was. 

It made Henry feel warmer than should be possible in the Arctic; his chest seemed to expand with it like he was taking a deep breath on a pleasantly hot summer day. 

And yet, their undeniable closeness also reacted with something within him that he did not want to come to the surface, some yearning chasm that had only become more of an inescapably dark void since Billy Orren’s death, black and cold like the horrible sea under the ice. 

He and Billy had been close, too.  
Perhaps not the way that Bridgens and Peglar were, their hands twitching near each other, touching for seconds only before shrinking back, a dance they repeated over and over. 

Then again, Henry didn’t know, would never know what could have been. 

In another world, a kinder, warmer one, it might have been him and Billy, lending each other strength and comfort while listening to their captain speak of sun and rain, sowing and reaping. 

Billy would laugh afterwards, about the absurdness of it all, this dead land, and Henry would look at him and understand why they still praised God’s abundance every year. 

But, as the Bible said, harvest was past, summer had ended, and they were not saved.

The sermon was coming to an end now, unrest spreading amongst the men.  
“While the earth remaineth,” Sir John went on, raising his voice over the sounds of heavy boots shuffling on fresh snow, “seedtime and harvest, and cold and heat, and summer and winter, and day and night shall not cease.” 

Genesis, Henry thought, was indeed a fitting book for this occasion, here at the beginning and end of all things.


	6. Little/Irving/Hodgson

“You know, angels don’t even have wings in the bible. At least not unless we are talking about cherubim or seraphim, I believe,” John blabbered happily while liberally painting his giant paper maché monstrosities with some kind of golden paste. 

He was sitting on the floor, spread out to work on his costume, Edward’s cabin giving the three Terror lieutenants barely enough room to squeeze all of them together. 

Especially since George had decided to go as some kind of interpretation of Marie Antoinette, and the ridiculously tall wig he was currently trying to glue a model ship to with a stinking adhesive was taking up more space then necessary, in Edward’s opinion. 

While George and John had set up their own little workshop on his floor, Edward was sitting on his bed, watching with growing concern as John gesticulated with a paintbrush in hand, threatening to leave gold splatters all over his surroundings.  
His steward would be furious. 

“No, really,” he went on, as if anyone had dared question his knowledge of scripture, “there is not a single”—he was interrupted by his own hiccup, looking quite betrayed for a second before he went on—”not a single instance in either testament that talks of a common angel having wings!”

He looked proud at being able to finish his point so eloquently. 

They had all decided to start tonight’s festivities early with a drink in Edward’s cabin while they’d finalise their costumes, some imbibing more vigorously than others.

“Oh, is that so?” George asked, completely focused on not accidentally gluing his fingers together and not listening to a word John was saying.  
Damn him.

“Yes, indeed, my friend!” John went on, now newly encouraged.  
He actually paused for a moment to pull out a small, battered book from inside his uniform pocket.  
Clearing his throat and leafing through the fragile-looking pages, he stopped and raised one finger to address them as if he were an overly strict school teacher, seemingly having found the passage he was looking for.

“Then I lifted up mine eyes, and looked, and behold a certain man clothed in linen, whose loins were girded with fine gold of Uphaz.”

“What’s Uphaz?” George piped up from his seat on the floor, suddenly becoming interested at the worst moment. 

John stumbled for a second, whether because of the drink that was now colouring his cheeks with a dashing blush, or because he was put off by the question.

“It is a place… yes, I am quite sure. A place in, in the East,” he answered vaguely. 

George hummed in agreement. 

Finding his rhythm again, John went on with his oration.

“His body also was like the beryl, and his face as the appearance of lightning, and his eyes as lamps of fire, and his arms and his feet like in colour to polished brass, and the voice of his words like the voice of a multitude.” 

He finished his little sermon, putting the bible back into his inner pocket and patting it contently. 

George put a halt to his crafting, looking at John with curiosity now. 

“So why are you wearing a skirt?”

“What?”

“Why are you wearing a skirt, if you’re an angel? Are you a lady angel?”

John drew in a big breath, Edward already seeing his outrage painted plainly on his face.

“Nonsense, George! Angels are neither man nor woman, they are heavenly creatures! They may appear to us in corporeal forms from time to time, but most scholars agree—”

He was interrupted by George. 

“Is your body like, uh, like a berry?”

John huffed. “Beryl, the angel’s body is like beryl.”

Edward, now starting to feel more loose and comfortable due to the copious amounts of sherry and comradery shared between the three of them for the last hour, as well as the warmth lent to his quarters by their combined body heat, let out a small chuckle. 

“How is John like a berry? Well, just take him in, George! He is deeply red like a strawberry in the summer, and perhaps as sweet,” he mused boldly. 

John blushed at least a shade darker, sputtering indignantly, while George seemed to consider Edward’s theory.  
Having decided on his appraisal of its merit, he nodded, taking another big swig of the sherry. 

“Certainly, Edward, certainly. And like the berry, I do enjoy a little taste, I do,” he philosophised. 

John had given up on perfecting his wings now, squirming in his place. 

“It’s beryl, for the last time, his body also was like the beryl.”

Edward got up from his bed, joining George and John on the ground and carefully putting away their costumes in various states of being finished. 

“Well, let’s see which one it is then, shall we?”


End file.
